


heart of leather soul of brass

by itsmylifekay



Series: cœur de cuir [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fill, Sick Fic, Skinny Steve, hybrid bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:27:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3131180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmylifekay/pseuds/itsmylifekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A request by IntrepidAmi for a fic explaining how Bucky got in the homeless situation, how he lost his arm and why he has no family. The angstier and darker the better.</p>
<p>Bucky’s throat is raw and his face wet as his eyes fly open, bile clawing its way up his chest and burning through his heart as he jerks violently upright and glances around the room. 'There will be consequences' is still echoing in his head, a hollow reminder in an uncaring voice that has sweat beading on the back of his neck and dripping down his spine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heart of leather soul of brass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IntrepidAmi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntrepidAmi/gifts).



> I hope this is close to what you wanted, IntrepidAmi! thanks for the prompt~<3

 

_He’s in a room with white walls, window closed and barely any sun coming in. There’s a sturdy wooden table in the corner and a leather chair that an older man is sitting in, staring at Bucky as he silently studies the room. Bucky’s tail flicks as something catches his eye-- it’s inconsequential, just a strap on the cot pushed to the far wall, but the man finds his fascination amusing._

_Bucky looks up with wide eyes as the man stands and comes over, puts a heavy hand on his head right between his ears. It’s uncomfortable, Bucky’s ears twitch, but the man’s hand doesn’t move._

_“You will be useful. You will help people, do you understand?”_

_He doesn’t. Not really. But he knows that tone and knows the lesson. Nods once, eyes still staring at the cot. There are stains on the straps, rust on the buckles, and he can’t help but smell the faint scent of sweat and blood and something unfamiliar that comes from the strange bed with silver buckles and cracked leather._

_“You have been created for this purpose: to help humans. You will do your duty or there will be consequences, do you understand?”_

_Bucky nods again._

_There’s an uncomfortable feeling prickling up his spine the longer they stand there and he sighs in relief as soon as the man lets him go, dashes out the door without looking back and sits through the day’s training with his ears pressed flat and his nose still itching with that unknown scent._

_The same scent that chokes him a few years later, coupled with the smell of smoke and burning and fear. It’s the smell of Death and Bucky feels sick with it, feels it oozing beneath his skin like a shifting snake until he wants to carve it out. But he can’t, because the smell is getting stronger and there’s still people inside and he has to-- has to--_

_Flames lick at his skin, burn away the feeling that’s wormed its way in, replace it with numbing pain and blind determination. There’s screams and shouts and pleas and then fresh air, a tease before the process is repeated, until a sickening crunch brings it all to a stop and the pain, the pain is **searing** , burning brighter and hotter than the fire all around him and the smell of Death is creeping closer- closer- _

Bucky’s throat is raw and his face wet as his eyes fly open, bile clawing its way up his chest and burning through his heart as he jerks violently upright and glances around the room. _There will be consequences_ is still echoing in his head, a hollow reminder in an uncaring voice that has sweat beading on the back of his neck and dripping down his spine. Something shifts next to him and his claws extend, rake across tender flesh so he has time to flee to the opposite wall, press against it with his heart slamming in his chest.

A familiar voice cries out in surprised pain then chokes into silence, followed by hollow coughing and the sound of hands scrabbling in the dark.

“Shit,” Bucky hisses, immediately dropping to the ground and moving towards Steve, catching the flailing hands before one strikes him and tugging the smaller man against his chest. “Shit, Steve. It’s okay. It’s okay, I promise.”

The words are meant for Steve, but they’re for himself as well-- still reeling from one nightmare as he’s thrust into another.

Because for the past week Steve has been feverish, pale and sweaty, lying weak and as helpless as Bucky’s ever seen him on their pile of blankets on the floor. The last thing Bucky wants at this point is for Steve to feel frightened, to have one of his attacks and end up even weaker. The all consuming spiral of terrifying _what ifs_ has already taken up residence in his head and at the base of his spine-- manifesting in nightmares like the one tonight, although never before has one been so violently real. He bundles Steve closer and presses his nose into the warm space behind one of Steve’s ears, willing him to be calm and go back to sleep.

But Steve’s still tense against him, lungs struggling to pull in air and Bucky can feel wetness against his arm from where his claws tore into Steve’s delicate skin. He ducks his head and nuzzles underneath Steve’s jaw, licks a path up his neck before pulling one arm back and running his tongue over the blood there, smoothing gently over damaged skin.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” he murmurs, _purrs_ , nuzzles against the column of Steve’s neck-- because supposedly that helps and it doesn’t matter how demeaning the action is if it helps Steve in the end. Bucky'd do worse things for Steve, _has_ done worse in the years he’s known him. He works over Steve’s arm alternating between swipes of his tongue and soothing words whispered into heated skin, keeps at it until he no longer tastes blood against his lips and Steve is breathing more easily into the side of his neck, puffs of air hitting the base of his throat in the same rhythm as his own breaths.

“Buck…” Steve finally says, head heavy where it’s fallen back against Bucky’s shoulder, but not as heavy as the sound of his voice. It’s thick: with sleep and pain and worry. Bucky tries to shush it away, doesn’t want to face Steve’s sympathy when in the end Steve’s the one who’s really hurting.

But Steve won’t leave it alone, of course he won’t, so he shifts and stumbles until he’s facing Bucky better, Bucky helping out and getting Steve across his lap when it’s evident there’s no stopping the inevitable-- no stopping Steve when he gets something in his head. So he takes in a careful breath and waits, tail still coarse and adrenaline still humming through his veins.

The walls of their home creak around them in the breeze and something clinks as it settles more firmly into place at their table, breaking up the night as Steve struggles to make out Bucky’s face in the inky darkness.

“Nightmare?” he asks, voice scratchy and thick and unused, painful even to hear.

Bucky nods, then clears his throat and mutters out a hoarse _yeah_ when he remembers Steve’s eyes don’t work quite as well as his own in the gloom.

There’s a beat of pause before Steve shifts, sits up a little straighter and places one steadying hand on Bucky’s metal arm and asks, “Want to talk about it?”

_The rattling of the truck and the crunch of the tires on the road fill his ears, mix with the cries and half-crazed whimpers of the people with him and the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears. It makes his jaw clench and his hands tighten into fists-- one clawed and one metal, both deemed **wrong.** He lets out a low growl and the hybrid next time him glances at him nervously. Nothing like the woman before--  a hybrid with disconcerting violet eyes, wide and dilated and manic as her nails pierced through Bucky’s shirt to his skin. _

_Part of him is glad that they’ve been separated, but a bigger part wants to know where she is. Wants to grab her and ask her to explain what she’d meant when she’d leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “Consequences, my dear...” before being herded away._

_Deep down, he knows the answer. But it’s easier to pretend otherwise, to pretend he doesn’t want to scream and yell and tear down the entire world around him._

The silence has returned again, stretched thin and fragile as another breeze makes the house protest and rattle, draws the scent of blood back under Bucky’s nose and makes his ears press back against his skull. His eyes narrow and one hand goes down to Steve’s shirt, tugs it up until he can get the other hand against the pale expanse of his chest. There’s wetness there that makes his fingers slip and a hiss force its way from between his teeth.

He ducks down quickly, gets his tongue on Steve’s bare chest, purrs soothingly at the way Steve sucks in a shocked breath and clenches slim fingers into his hair dangerously close to his sensitive ears. “ _Steve_ ,” he whispers, voice coming out too loud and too broken, but Steve exhales harshly and lets Bucky push him back against the nest of blankets on the floor, lets Bucky lap at the scratches on his chest and cover his thin frame with his own bulkier one. He doesn’t ask questions, not out loud, but Bucky can still hear them in the tentative arch of his spine and the careful brush of his fingers down Bucky’s arms.

From this position, he can hear the weak fluttering of Steve’s heart and the grating wrongness of the liquid in his lungs, can feel overheated skin and smell the horrible combination of Steve and Sickness. He breathes in and tries to get past the scent of stale sweat and struggling immune system, past the solid warmness of Steve himself and to the root of the problem. Sickness is often hard to identify, but he’s supposed to be built to do it, specifically designed to save.

He knows it’s respiratory, something like pneumonia but it’s somehow _more._ It’s _Sickness_ and Bucky doesn’t know what to do, how to stop it. Usually, Steve will be on the mend after a few days, but there’s been no change since the start of the week and Bucky is desperate.

Because Steve is tarnished brass and well-worn leather and Bucky can’t imagine life without him.

So he brushes his nose across Steve’s heart, licks over it protectively, and chips away the first piece of his last line of defense. Because he’ll give Steve _everything_ if it means he’ll stay.

“There’s a lot of things in this world I couldn’t protect,” Bucky murmurs, “You won’t be one.” His heart aches with the confession and the promise, yearns to fulfill the latter and breaks at the knowledge that so far he’s failing.

But Steve lets out an indignant sound, tightens his fingers against Bucky’s biceps. “I don’t need protecting.”

Bucky’s lips twitch at Steve’s stubborn focus and shakes his head, “Know you don’t. Doesn’t mean I won’t do it anyway.” His tongue drags in a final swipe up the very center of Steve’s chest, between his protruding ribs to his feathery collarbones, then pulls away so he can whisper, “Even if no matter how hard I try, seems like it just isn’t enough.” His teeth find the skin at the base of Steve’s neck and bite down, gentle enough to be a tease but with enough force to have Steve jerking against him.

But Steve isn’t distracted for long, pushing Bucky back with thin arms before squinting up at him through darkness and fever. “Bucky--”

“I can’t do it, Steve, I can’t fix you. Not like this.” Bucky admits, voice strained. Cuts him off because he can’t listen to Steve’s attempt at comfort, not now, not when he doesn’t deserve it. “Years of training and serving and the one time I actually fucking want to use it I can’t--” He pushes his forehead into Steve’s shoulder and closes his eyes tight against the frustrated wetness gathering there. “But I have to. Shit, I _have to._ I can’t fail again, not this time. Not with you.”

Steve’s hands come up to rest gently on his back, fingers hovering over the mismatch of Bucky’s shoulder blades before finally pressing down and blinking up at the shadows. “It’s not your job to fix me, Buck,” he says carefully.

And shit if Bucky doesn’t know that, doesn’t know that Steve has never seen him as anything less than equal. He’s been more careful and considerate than Bucky’d ever thought possible in a human, and even now he’s still trying to convince Bucky that nothing’s his fault, that helping him isn’t his responsibility. And it’s not, not in _that_ way. But it _is_ in all the ways that count.

“Like hell it isn’t,” Bucky breathes. “You’re mine and I’m yours and if we don’t keep each other running then who will?” He smoothes his hands carefully across Steve’s chest, makes sure he hasn’t missed anything else, then carefully pulls Steve’s threadbare shirt back down. But it doesn’t feel right, having Steve separated from him, because all he really wants is to push as close as he possibly can. “I love you, Steve.”

Their home is a hazy shadow around him, but he can see their story easily in the grey outlines and blocky shapes against the walls, see the space they’ve made their own and feel the surge of fear that he’ll ever have to step within these walls Alone.

His next inhale shakes slightly, but the warm hands on his back squeeze and bring him back. “Just like I love you,” Steve says, with a tone that’s as much of an acknowledgement of Bucky’s point as he’s ever going to get. (It’s understanding, at the very least. Allowance for Bucky to do what he feels is right.)

And Bucky doesn’t know whether to smile or cry that Steve’s given him that, just nudges hands back underneath that thin shirt and noses at Steve’s jaw. “Gonna take care of you, Steve. Gonna do everything I can.”

He lifts the fabric over Steve’s head and drops it to the floor, works Steve’s pants off next and gets his undergarments down his legs as well, puts everything in a neat pile before reaching for his own shirt, freezing when thin fingers loop around his wrists.

“Only if you tell me,” Steve says. And vague as the condition is, Bucky understands.

Understands that Steve wants an explanation for what he’s doing, wants the story he’s never pressed for and Bucky’s never told. Because after years of locking that part of himself away, pushing away the memories and turning his back on his creation, he has to face it now. And Steve wants to be there to face it with him, wants to understand.

“I will,” Bucky promises, gets his shirt off to try and hide some of the thickness in his voice. The rest of his clothes follow and then he’s wrapping himself around Steve as much as he can, pressed chest to chest with their legs tangled and Steve’s chin propped up on his shoulder, Bucky’s mechanical arm keeping him held in place. He starts up a rumbling purr and Steve melts against him, prompts Bucky to squeeze him that much closer and knead careful fingers along the planes of his back.

He takes in a deep breath, lifts a hand and flicks a single claw against his own throat, then urges Steve down against the small trickle of blood. Steve’s mouth closes over it hesitantly and as soon as he does Bucky kisses the side of his head in approval, licks over the shell of his ear and nestles there, breathing into the fine blond strands at the back of Steve’s head.

“I was made to help people.” Bucky starts, voice low and controlled. “That’s the simplest explanation, the one that they gave us… And I believed it for so _long_. Went along with it because I didn’t know any different. But Steve, god, I was so wrong. They built us to fill their needs, to do what they didn’t feel like doing and--” He sucks in a harsh breath, collects himself before starting again. “I was one of the lucky ones, being in medical. It could’ve been so much worse. But shit, the things I saw… The things they had me do…”

His head shakes and the walls rattle with a fresh gust of wind.

Steve stills against him, one palm pressing tight to Bucky’s heart and the other cinching at his side. His mouth pulls away, opens, but Bucky carefully pushes him back down because he needs Steve to get better more than he needs sympathy for his own wounds.

“One day, there was a fire at the hospital…” He whispers, voice going low, because this is the true start of his story, the birth of a man whose eyes had been opened. The start of the path that lead him to the city, to Steve. He swallows and noses back behind Steve’s ear, takes solace there as he continues. “Whole place was burning...everybody needed to be evacuated. We, the hybrids-- They made us go back in, again and again, until all the Centers were out. Hell, we weren’t even allowed to _leave_ until all the Elites had already gone. But then...god, then they wouldn’t let us back in even though there were still people trapped.”

_Smoking wood and screaming, shouts to remain with the evacuated and tend to those who needed care. Running, breaking away, scrambling back into wreckage with rage burning brighter than any fire._

“But they were Working Class, not worth saving.” The words are bitter on his tongue but he needs to say them, needs to get them out. And Steve shivers against him, so Bucky pulls him closer, shields him from the implications of his words and the chill settling in the air. “I went in anyway. Got out as many as I could until something fell on me and then I was the one burning. Lost my arm, but gained a whole lot of understanding.”

He still remembers waking up with bleary eyes and unfocused thoughts, wondering what had happened until his eyes caught on the unfamiliar metal protruding from his shoulder and the memories all came rushing back. The doctor had explained his actual arm was deemed too costly to justify saving after extraction, had treated him as a thing rather than a person and he felt fire once again licking at his skin. Because it was _wrong,_ it was wrong and he knew it. Believed it with everything he had.

“They discharged me as soon as they could, sent me off to be reclaimed and modified since I couldn’t work at the hospital.” He flexes his arm against Steve’s back, feels the whir of gears and metal pieces. It’s a part of him now, but there’d been a time he’d hated it. “A bionic arm could be useful other places...wanted to repurpose me like I was some kind of wrench that could be melted down and turned into nails.”

The angry curl of Steve’s fingers soothes some of his own rekindled rage, calms him with the knowledge that Steve hates the system as much as he does, wants to tear it all down with the same single-minded passion. It’s that kindred feeling that gives way to a bloom of pride and a rueful laugh.

“Didn’t work though. I’d realized the truth and they couldn’t do a thing about it, couldn’t recast me, couldn’t break me… So they put me on a truck with all the other broken toys they wanted to get rid of and dumped us on the outskirts of the city.” He smiles and presses a kiss just behind Steve’s ear, hums at the way Steve’s started to go soft against him. “Was a month of sitting in the fog and cursing at the world, getting spit on and kicked with the threat of being Collected if I ever fought back constantly in the back of my head. Then this punk comes along, throwing punches and yelling so I didn’t have to and shit, Steve, I didn’t know what to think. Just knew I couldn’t get enough of you.”

Steve makes a soft sound at the memory, boneless in Bucky’s arms and heavy with sleep now that Bucky’s blood is working its way through his system. But he manages a tilt of his head, a tiny nuzzle against the wet patch of skin on Bucky’s neck that sends warmth down Bucky’s spine all the way to his toes.

“Still haven’t gotten enough,” he whispers. “So you better not leave me, you hear?”

He’s just handed over the last piece of himself, broken and fragile glass that he’s never shown anyone else. It’s his story and his heart and his soul all wrapped in one and now it’s Steve’s to have and hold as much as it is his own.

(But the consequences...the consequences are still looming from his failure and Steve is slipping quickly back into sleep in his arms.)

“Buck…” Steve finally murmurs, fingers flexing weakly against Bucky’s back, skating towards his neck until they’re threading slowly through his hair. And Bucky takes the hint, pulls back and tilts his head so their mouths connect, lips moving over Steve’s as gently as he can, tasting his own blood on Steve’s tongue and licking into Steve’s mouth when it goes lax, whining in the back of his throat and tugging Steve as close as he can.

“Steve,” he breathes. “Steve, _please._ ” The smaller man is motionless in his arms, pulse weak and fluttering where Bucky can feel it against his palm. “Please don’t leave me.”

_There will be consequences..._

_Consequences, my dear._

Bucky can still hear the words clear in his head, clawing at his thoughts and leaving scorching paths of doubt and fear in their wake. Because he knows the pain of consequences but this, _Steve,_ should never be associated with that kind of agony-- even if Bucky deserves it, even if it’s his fault. Steve should never have to feel the burning punishment that comes after doing something wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers, burying his face in Steve’s neck with one hand cupped behind Steve’s head to keep it from falling back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

He doesn’t know how long he keeps up his mantra, rocking back and forth with Steve in his arms and tears drying on his face, but then Steve moves against him, the faintest of things, but Bucky grasps onto it like a lifeline.

“Steve?” he asks, voice edging on frantic. “Steve?”

He gets a soft groan in response and can’t help the way he squeezes Steve tighter in relief, rolls and sits up so Steve is in his lap and Bucky can get both hands on the sides of his face and look into striking blue eyes as they flutter open and stare into his own.

“Buck?” Steve rasps.

“Yeah, Steve. Yeah, it’s me. It’s okay.” He smiles weakly and reaches one hand to readjust Steve’s thighs, get him positioned more firmly against him. Then he’s scrambling for a towel, throwing it over his shoulder as Steve begins to cough violently, urging the other man down against his neck as he hacks up the liquid that had been filling his lungs. “You’re okay…”

And he is. Or, at least he will be.

Steve groans between two bouts of coughing, tries to push back from Bucky’s chest, but doesn’t get very far until Bucky helps. His hands find the sides of Steve’s face again and his thumbs sweep away some of the dark liquid at the corners of Steve’s lips. His heart pangs in his chest and guilt is still swimming in his stomach, but the scalding fear has passed.

“Take it easy, Stevie,” he says. “Just lay back down and cough it all up.”

But Steve doesn’t listen, shakes his head and narrows his eyes and coughs wetly into his own shoulder. It’s obvious there’s something he wants to say, but his mind is still fuzzy and his body still weak and he can’t find the words before he’s slumping forward again, coughing raggedly into the towel draped across Bucky’s back.

Bucky starts up a low purr, helps Steve’s lungs clear as much as they can, and rubs at Steve’s back and neck, hums encouragements in his ear until Steve falls asleep with his throat raw but his lungs empty, breathing sounding better than it has all week.

The walls creak and groan around them and Bucky holds on through the silence, feels the strengthening thud of Steve’s heart and the rise and fall of his chest like pure life through his veins. Steve’s mask is still lying on the floor by the entryway and Bucky stands now to get it, Steve held firm against his hip and hand shaky as he lifts the worn leather from the ground. The top left buckle is still smashed and Bucky clenches his jaw to hold back the whimper that threatens to break free.

_They’re walking down the hazy streets after work, Steve’s fingers tired and calloused between Bucky’s own grease-covered ones. The sky is a dark smudge that swallows even the city’s lights and smothers all hope of stars, but they both look to it anyway, silence comfortable around them and Bucky’s tail flicking happily against his back, sharp eyes catching the movement of Steve’s free hand scratching around the edges of his mask._

_It’s a normal day, a peaceful day, but it all goes to shit when they round a corner and a group of men spills out of a tavern ahead of them at the same time. Bucky’s hand tightens against Steve’s and they both tense, waiting to see what happens, adrenaline already rushing past their ears even before the first man narrows his eyes and spits on the ground, shouts something about filthy impurities before everything erupts into chaos._

_He tries to keep Steve close, of course he does. But it doesn’t take long before he’s got three on him, punching and kicking while he tries to dodge and deflect. He tries not to hit, not if he can help it, because he can’t afford any trouble. Not when trouble means Collection and Collection means leaving Steve Alone._

_But then he hears Steve curse, hears one of the men make a sneering comment about his mask, and then the horrible sound of snapping metal and flesh on bone. All of his careful restraint goes out the window and he puts down anyone who gets between him and Steve, claws and teeth flashing until he has Steve tucked against his side and they’re running through the streets. Steve is gasping beside him and Bucky can tell it doesn’t sound right, looks down and feels his blood run cold at the way Steve’s mask has come free at one corner, seal broken and deadly air slipping into fragile lungs._

_By the time they’re pushing through the door with a bang, Steve’s already wheezing, coughing, and gasping through an attack, blinking past dark spots in his vision as Bucky practically carries him over the threshold so he can slam the door behind them. The mask comes off and Bucky frantically wipes at Steve’s mouth, tells him to cough up as much as he can before it settles. But Steve’s already slipping, sinking to the ground and Bucky feels panic grip his chest._

_The next morning he wakes up curled around Steve’s unmoving form, the skin pressed against his own sweaty and overheated._

_And it’s his fault._

_He hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t been aware enough, hadn’t protected Steve and now Steve’s left to bear the consequences._

_Shouts echo in the furthest depths of his mind and flames flicker behind his eyes, pain blooming somewhere he thought he’d locked far away._

He blinks back the memories, looks down to where the mask is still resting on his palm, then turns on the light and moves back to their bed to work on the buckle with Steve propped against his chest, tinkers and molds and presses until the broken part is gone and it’s ready for Steve to look at when he wakes up a few hours later, stretching out against Bucky’s chest before slumping back against him. He presses a kiss to the side of Steve’s head and hums appreciatively when Steve turns his head to make it a proper kiss, lips moving together until Steve touches gentle fingers to his jaw and pulls away.

“Buck,” he says, gentle determination in his eyes that has Bucky spellbound. “I love you, you know that?”

Bucky nods, frames Steve’s face with his hands and whispers back, “Just like I love you?”

And Steve runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, rubs behind one of his soft ears before breathing out a gentle “ _Yeah_ ” and ducking his head to press a kiss to Bucky’s scar-covered shoulder. He holds his mouth against the juncture there, a beat of pause settling between them before his lips are moving again, words forming against metal and skin, “And I don’t care how wrong it is to say, Buck, but I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you ended up in this city where I could find you.” He presses a final kiss to Bucky’s shoulder then leans back, one thin hand on the side of Bucky’s face and eyes an earnest, piercing blue as he says, “I’m just sorry it hurt you so much getting here.”

There’s darkness on his lips and oil in his hair, skin washed out by the single bulb hanging from the ceiling; he’s tarnished brass and well-worn leather and Bucky will _never_ get enough of him in his entire life. He handed over his heart and Steve placed it in a velvet box, is treating it like something precious.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky whispers, heart breaking along with his voice. His hands scramble to find purchase at Steve’s hip and back and pull him closer, drag one hand up his spine to cup the back of his neck and get their mouths together again.

The voices in his head are softer now, finally quieting as Steve kisses him, whispers those words again and again into his lips, until Bucky’s drowning in them.

There’s a new heat consuming him now, warmer than any fire, lighting up his very core and banishing the darkest shadows of his memories so there’s nothing but the love that’s pouring into him and out of him, bodies twined together on the blankets and Steve’s breaths steady as his own. The night is gone and the nightmare is over-- Steve still a warm weight in his arms.

His teeth nip into Steve’s lower lip and he swallows the sound Steve makes in response, lets it fill him up as the wind stops and their home settles around them, standing guard as they come together between its walls. They’re tarnished brass and gleaming silver, worn brown leather and soft black ears.

(And Bucky can’t believe how lucky he is to be here.)

 

_Consequences, my dear...are only punishments for those not willing to overcome them._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed  
> i'm on tumblr if you want to say hi, same username :)


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